


Daytime Sleeper

by Salon_Kitty



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Ending to Season Two, Blue Christmeth madness, F/M, challenge: Blue Christmeth, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:04:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salon_Kitty/pseuds/Salon_Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt by panademonium. Jane doesn't succumb to Jesse's meth pity party in 'Mandala'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daytime Sleeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [panademonium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panademonium/gifts).



> The poem is Elizabeth Bishop's 'Insomnia'.

 

 _The moon in the bureau mirror_  
_looks out a million miles_  
_(and perhaps with pride, at herself,_  
_but she never, never smiles)_  
_far and away beyond sleep, or_  
_perhaps she's a daytime sleeper._

 

 

Jane sits in the barcalounger and watches Jesse slink off to his room, her mood like wild horses charging in a storm. She wants to follow him – wants to follow him so bad she can already taste her beloved in her veins. She knows Jesse’s not into that. He’s got his drug of choice, and she’s got hers, but she knows that it wouldn’t take much to get him to try it. In the state he’s in, she can introduce him to just about anything. But as much as she wants it, she knows where it will all lead. More of her father’s disappointment, a trip back to rehab, coming home to a fetid apartment and dead plants. It’s a tread well-worn and no longer gratifying. It wasn’t Daddy’s fault that her mother chose to kill herself. Jane knows this now, and seeing Jesse’s despair dressed up in guilt in the familiar droop of his shoulders and prickly comebacks, Jane has a swelling urge to change the tide, wants to offer comfort where she had received none.

 

She gets up to leave. Gets as far as wrapping her hand around the doorknob, the brass warming instantly, but that wave is cresting inside her and she turns to stare off at the long stretch of floorboards to Jesse’s bedroom. Jane makes up her mind and marches forward – confident, determined. Her mural calls to her – she’s positioned herself into the nexus of the universe. She can change the story. She can do anything.

 

With a push of the knob, the door swings open with a silent whoosh. Jesse sits cross-legged on his bed, his pipe already greased and charred as he tokes on the glass tube. When he looks at her, there’s the faintest glimmer of shame before his face hardens, radiates defiance.

 

“What?” he asks, and his voice is full of death and recriminations.

 

“Put it down. Now. You’re going to a meeting with me and that’s final. I’m not interested in any of this loser, crybaby shit. Put down that pipe and get off your ass. Before I toss you out on the street.”

 

Jesse’s expression quickly shifts to offended shock. “What the hell –”

 

“I’m serious, Jesse. You do this with me, or find someplace else to live.”

 

It takes another twenty minutes of squabbling and complaint, but Jane finally gets him behind the wheel of his crappy Tercel, her in the passenger seat with her cigarette already lit and poised at the crack of the window. Jesse keeps glancing at her with features still molded in surprise, like he doesn’t even know how she got him in the car, driving to the church on San Mateo that she’s been attending like the dutiful daughter that she despises for the last three months.

 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to say anything first time in. All I ask is that you listen, alright? Then afterwards, you and I are going to have a long talk. I want to hear more about this crew of yours.”

 

* * *

 

 

_By the Universe deserted,_  
_she'd tell it to go to hell,_  
_and she'd find a body of water,_  
_or a mirror, on which to dwell._  
_So wrap up care in a cobweb_  
_and drop it down the well_

 

“So, when’s the next payout?” she asks him. They’re in Jesse’s house, eating Thai food in the living room as some motorcross event plays on the flatscreen. She likes the house an awful lot, has added plenty of her own touches throughout while Jesse struggles to furnish and decorate the place. As soon as he had shown it her, told her about the meet up with his father and all of the renovations they had done, the money they’d sunk into it, Jane saw opportunity. It would be good to have him out of the duplex, away from her dad’s prying eyes. Once Jesse told her about the meth lab they found in the basement, the plan practically formed itself. She wishes she could have been there to see the man’s face as Jesse waltzed into the house with the keys. From the way Jesse described it, she imagines that perfect expression of incredulity, the child screwing over the father for once, how Mr. Pinkman’s smugness must have turned to ashes in his mouth. Fuck the patriarchy.

 

“Mr. White gets his cut first then he splits it with me. That’s how this works, I told you already. Have a little patience. We just got six hundred g’s two weeks ago.”

 

“Right, but how long does it take to parse out three million? I mean, when you think about it, that’s really a small fraction to what this guy is getting paid. Seems a little unfair. You need to stop letting your teacher make all the deals. The man obviously lacks negotiation skills.”

 

Jesse stops fiddling with the remote and eyes her suspiciously. “What do you mean? Small fraction of what?”

 

She scoffs. “Have you done the math? You said you were getting forty a pound out there, and you two are making, what? Two hundred pounds a week? This boss of yours is clearing buku-bucks and he’s paying you a pittance. When you’re doing all the work. You have to split a measly three million to his ninety six? I’m just saying, it bears looking into.”

 

She sees his brain going to work behind his eyes, knows she needs to hit the button where his sense of injustice is placed. She’s been able to goad Jesse into saving some of that money for the future. Jane’s been scanning the real estate page of properties in Canada. Maybe she should look toward something tropical. Somewhere far away from her father and her memories of home. The image of her and Jesse on a beach, an easel propped in front of her while she paints wave after wave of blue water and gliding whitecaps, pops into her head and she feels a small, sliver of contentment. She thinks of Hokusai and the great wave off Kanagawa. Maybe Japan would be the place, and the majesty of Mt. Fuji calls to her.

 

He sighs, his back shouldering an invisible weight. “Yeah, well … I don’t know what you think I can do about it. The dude’s hardcore. You can tell by how fucking still he is, most of the time. ‘Course, I only got to meet him twice. Guess he wasn’t interested in what I had to say. He thinks of me as Mr. White’s assistant, even if I am doing most of the work. Mr. White’s in La-La land half the time.”

 

“You really need to stop calling him that,” she chastises, her teeth set on edge every time she hears Jesse use the honorific. Her first impression of Walter was hardly complimentary and Jesse’s revealing tidbits from their workdays does nothing to pique her admiration. She doubts the man is being completely honest with Jesse, and he strikes her as the worst kind of liar. The deluded kind.

 

It’s later, in bed, that the plot starts to expand in her mind. Jesse’s trying to get her in an amorous mood, his slavish kisses trailing down her belly, but Jane’s thoughts travel to money. And money is freedom, the most addicting drug of all. She looks at the painting she’s begun on Jesse’s bedroom wall – a mirror to the one in her bedroom, the concentric circles of fuchsia and cerulean wrapped around the twined bodies of her and Jesse practically glowing at her, beckoning and inviting. She wants to float. Sees herself twisting through a sea of hundred dollar bills.

 

“You should sell on the side,” she blurts aloud, making Jesse look up from where he’s about to shimmy down her panties.

 

“Huh? Sell what on the side?”

 

“Your _product._ All you need to do is skim a pound a week and that’s an extra forty grand we could be putting into the slush fund.”

 

He gawks at her, shifts up on his knees as sex is quickly forgotten. “Are you fucking nuts? I told you what Mike said to me. The guy is bad news. He finds out I’m selling – hell, that I’m _stealing_ from him _–_ and I’m a dead man. You think no one’s gonna know if there’s suddenly competition on the streets? Believe me, it’s a small community, babe. News travels fast.”

 

“Well, maybe you need to start looking at a new community. Fring can’t sell everywhere.”

 

Jesse looks doubtful but the striations of his pupils shine with respect. “What are you thinking?” he asks, before shaking his head. “Whatever, don’t tell me. I know Mr. White won’t go for it, whatever you’re planning in that devious head of yours.”

 

She sits up, slides a hand into Jesse’s jockeys. “You know what? _Fuck_ Mr. White.” _I’m your fucking partner now,_ she thinks, but she doesn’t say it to Jesse, she doesn’t have to. Walter seems to have some kind of hold on him and Jane is getting tired of seeing its presence. She cups his balls, leans in to press her lips to Jesse’s and he arches forward, already grabbing for her clumsily in his eagerness. “Can he do this for you?” she teases, as her hand curls around a quickening hardness, tight and hot in her palm. She loves the smell of him, loves the way his body has become familiar to her, knowing every centimeter of it just by touch.

 

“Fuck no,” Jesse mumbles against her mouth. And then they don’t talk at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _into that world inverted_  
_where left is always right,_  
_where the shadows are really the body,_  
_where we stay awake all night_

 

“Well? How’d it go? Did he seem receptive at all?”

 

The questions come in a tumble, and Jane is lit up, sensing success within her grasp and ready to move on into the next phase of their lives. She’s not interested in Jesse’s business, never was, but the income continues to increase, the pile of money getting higher in Jane’s fertile imagination and she wants to get as much as she can before they leave. She draws it, paints it, mountains of it; fills in the green with her pen in hurried, frantic strokes, like she’s willing it into creation. She’s done her research, has Jesse’s lawyer working on offers for property in New York. The business she’s trying to get Jesse to buy in Albuquerque is ditched, the idea of owning a gallery in the heart of the art world suddenly rife with possibility. Dealing art is a perfect way to launder money, and even Goodman agrees. She just has to convince Jesse, but that’s becoming less and less of a challenge.

 

Jesse barely looks at her, his tics playing out in the constant spinning of his cigarette pack. He’s avoiding her gaze, a bad sign. She pinches the pack out of the air, away from his open hand, and he snaps eyes at her finally.

 

“What? I didn’t ask him yet, alright?” Jesse’s aggravation unfurls like jasmine pearls of tea leaves under boiling water. “I don’t – I don’t think you’ve thought this all the way through, babe. Mr. – I mean, Walt doesn’t deserve this. He’s my partner. I can’t do what he does, you know that. I ain’t smart enough.”

 

“Bullshit, Jesse. You know that cook frontwards and backwards. The man has cancer, how long do you think he’s got, anyway? It’s smart business for Fring to put all of his cards on you. He doesn’t need a fucking Nobel physicist, he needs a cook. I’m just saying, you do most of the work already, why shouldn’t you be entitled to the whole four million? The man is dead weight, but you’re too loyal to see that.”

 

It’s already April and they celebrated her birthday last week by going to the most expensive restaurant in town. Jesse insisted on buying a bottle of Dom Perignon, a move she found tacky but indulged just the same. She’s twenty-seven now. Thirty is only three years away. She needs to get Jesse out of New Mexico, needs to show him the world. The pile is almost big enough. She dreams about starting a family with him some day, but the thought brings visions of her nursing a daughter and memories of her mother holding her as a little girl, that sing song voice comforting her, making her ache through her entire body. Maybe they need to start with a few dogs first. A pair of mastiffs in a penthouse apartment.

 

“I just think it’s kind of a dick move, is all. Pushing the guy out when he’s just trying to provide for his family before he kicks it. I didn’t think we were the type,” he says accusingly.

 

“If he’s got any brains at all, then he’s got plenty of money put aside for them by now. Don’t you think he should be spending his last days _with_ them, instead of holed up in the ground grinding out high-grade glass? You’d be doing him a favor, hon.”

 

Jesse hangs his head, and she knows he’s considering her point. Really, the man is hanging on longer than she expected. Jesse told her about his remission, but there’s been no word of the cancer returning and Jane is getting increasingly antsy. If Jesse was working alone, their nest egg would be ready in another few months. Enough to drop on the gallery and its initial investments.

 

“Maybe I should talk to him,” she suggests suddenly, another plan forming.

 

“To Walt?” Jesse gapes at her in confusion. He needs a haircut. She scans the slacker attire he’s wearing. The oversize hoodies are gone, but he’s not wearing the clothes she’s been buying him and she sighs with a suffering gust.

 

“No, silly, your boss. Fring.” Her brain feels invaded now, as more ideas start to cram inside of it. “Isn’t it about time we invite him to dinner? From what you’ve told me, he seems like the type who would respond well to … you know, the _normality_ of it. Extending an invitation like that, he wouldn’t refuse you, would he? We could play the perfect suburban couple,” she grins. “It’ll be fun. I’ll wear pearls and a dress. You could wear loafers and a sports jacket. Like, totally _Mad Men._ ”

 

Jesse's gape turns to a crooked smile, his tetchy mood shifting into a comfortable pattern. “Yeah, right. Like, I ain’t playing no square. Do I look like my dad? What the fuck am I gonna talk about to Gus? You’re such a dork,” he teases.

 

“I’ll have you know that I can come across as exceptionally cultured when I’m inspired, doofus. I can find plenty to talk about with Mr. Chicken Brother.” She cards her fingers through the top of his hair, runs them down the side of his face. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short, sweetie.”

 

It doesn’t take much pressing before she’s convinced him. She’s been wanting to meet Fring for some time, and she smiles as Jesse goes back to his videogame. She’s painting a new mural on the main wall of the living room. It’s the Sandia mountains, a cold moon behind them, and a sky littered with diamonds for stars. Eventually there will be horses stampeding across the plains, but first she has to finish the coppers and reds of the skyline, the colors adding warmth to the room, like a fire glowing.

 

Later, after Jesse’s asleep, she’ll go and spend some time on the internet, surfing for poisons. If Fring isn’t interested in dropping Walter, she can always look into other options.

 

* * *

 

 

 _where the heavens are shallow as the sea_  
_is now deep, and you love me._

 

“I’m just sayin’, it’s been two weeks. Like, when are you coming back? I miss you.”

 

Jesse whines into the phone as she slips on her boot and zips it up. Her meeting is in half an hour and she still has to get to the Upper East side.

 

“Look, Jesse, you’re locked into your schedule, but I’m not. I told you, things are going really well out here. I’ll come next weekend, I promise, but right now, I’ve got too many balls in the air. I mean, just the other day I got to meet Julian Schnabel, for fuck’s sake.” She hears his disgruntled sigh on the other end of the line, can see him bouncing his leg as he plays with his nails wondering who the hell Julian Schnabel is and what he means to her. “Maybe you can come visit me, instead. I mean, you’ve got your weekends off, babe. Get out of the fucking house. You need to stop moping about your old partner.”

 

“Shut up,” he snaps.

 

“Whatever. It’s no good for you. Come up here, and I’ll take you out. We’ll have some fun. There’s this place I want to take you where they have –”

 

“I _can’t_ , alright _._ I – I think I need to go to a meeting.”

 

Jane rolls her eyes to the ceiling. Not again. She’s got too many deals pending to play nursemaid. Every night is a new adventure for her and Jane doesn’t want to go backwards, doesn’t want to have to drag Jesse out into the bright lights, like the primordial ooze shaping into the first organisms, and she wonders if she can ever mold him into becoming the man she wants and not the manchild she’s been saddled with.

 

“Do what you gotta do, babe,” she tells him flatly.

 

“Wow. Like, thanks for your overwhelming show of concern, there. No, really, I’m so touched.”

 

She stands at the mirror and brushes lipstick over her mouth while holding the phone, the dark red making her pout look fuller and coquettish at once. The guy she’s meeting has a lot of money, and a lot of connections. Jane sees herself as a future master of the universe, but she can’t seem to fit Jesse into the picture.

 

“Look, I never got your fixation with the man. Just because he was your teacher, or whatever. You never owed him anything. You need to move on, babe. We were supposed to go travel when your contract is up. You said you wanted to go to New Zealand, right? See the local castles?” she teases, trying to return to her old affection.

 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles into the phone. “I haven’t been sleeping real well. I mean, like … not at all. I need you here, babe. I can’t get any shuteye without you laying next to me.” She hears him hesitate on the other end, waits for him to finish. “I’m – you know, not like you. I can’t just brush it off.”

 

A part of her still yearns for him, and a tenderness sparks in her, seeps into her voice. “ _Babe,”_ she whispers, the endearment drawn out with the remnants of her empathy. “Please. Let me buy you a plane ticket for this weekend. I promise I’ll take care of you. We’ll go to the zoo. You love it there. You need to get away from familiar surroundings. It’s not doing you any good.”

 

There’s a long pause before she finally hears him sigh. He relents with a throaty resignation. “Fine. I’ll come up there.”

 

Jane heads out of her apartment and into the open arms of the New York night. She thinks that maybe she needs to call Fring in the morning, thinks that maybe she’s got another suggestion for him. There’s a mutual respect there that she knows she can utilize to both her and Jesse’s advantage. Maybe she’ll invite Gus to the grand opening of the gallery, give him a little tour.

 

Outside, the traffic blares and belches, the sounds of the city like a wave, twirling her up into its depths. Jane floats along, sees the stream of colors stretch out before her. She thinks back to her mother, the two of them standing before a painting of O’Keefe’s _Shelton With Sunspots, NY._ “I wish I could do that,” Jane had said with all the earnestness of her twelve year-old budding passion.

 

“You can do anything, Jane,” her mother had said, somehow managing to make it sound sad and wistful. Jane had held her mother’s hand, tried to give her that something that she knew instinctively that her mother was missing.

 

Jane breathes in the stench of the car fumes, the garbage, the pizza parlors, and she smiles. The story is hers now, to write as she likes.

 

 


End file.
